


The Poet's Son

by malinaldarose (coralysendria)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (1978)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:55:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralysendria/pseuds/malinaldarose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before graduation from the Academy, young warriors have to undergo a survival test.  Boomer's is a little...unusual.</p>
<p>Did you ever wonder how Boomer and Jolley knew so much about the Borrellian Nomen they encoutered aboard The Rising Star in "The Man With Nine Lives?" This explains Boomer's knowledge. Jolley is on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poet's Son

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for BrightKnightie, from her prompt _"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." -- Carl Jung_ and originally posted in the LJ OldSchoolFic Springtime Serenade Fic Exchange.
> 
> It is set pre-canon, before the Cylon attack on the Colonies, but not by more than a year or three, and it's probably taking liberties to assume that prospective Viper pilots are drawn from warriors who already have a bit of experience. Having made _that_ assumption, it's not unreasonable to _further_ assume that Starbuck, Apollo, and Boomer became friends in flight school, a friendship which would continue aboard the _Galactica_.
> 
> It was betaed by the lovely Bethynyc.

Boomer woke with the progenitrix of all headaches and wondered for a micron why he had let Starbuck persuade him to drink so much. Then he opened his eyes and remembered. He hadn't been drinking with Starbuck. Not exactly. They had, indeed, toasted each other -- and Apollo -- the night before, but it hadn't been ambrosa in their mugs, but isolon. Ice, the cadets called it. It was used to render flight school cadets unconscious so that they could be deposited planetside gods knew where in a simulated Viper crash. They had to survive on their own for five cycles until the proctors came to pick them up. The catch was that they were deposited with sufficient supplies for only two cycles. The Academy had a formal name for the testing, of course, but the cadets simply referred to it as the Trial. It didn't matter how good a pilot a cadet turned out to be; if he or she couldn't pass the Trial, he or she did not become a Viper pilot in the Colonial Service. Boomer's uncle had balked at the Trial and ended up piloting nothing more exciting than a shuttle during his term of service. 

Boomer was determined to do better. 

He stayed where he was for a centon, taking inventory. His head was splitting, but there would be pain relievers in the lifekit. Red stripes on his extremities would indicate injuries; if he had been "injured" in his crash, nerve blocks would have been administered to keep him from using "broken" arms or legs. He saw no stripes -- and his limbs moved when he tested them -- so the proctors had decided that he was a good enough pilot to have made a decent landing despite a disabled ship. 

"There's something to be thankful for," he murmured.

No two Trials were exactly alike; this kept cadets from comparing notes and getting too cocky. He wondered briefly how Starbuck and Apollo were doing; roommates were Iced and dumped on the same random schedule and it seemed that the three of them had won the luck of the draw, as they were the first in their class to be Tried. 

"May the Lords of Kobol be with all of us," he said fervently.

He switched on the Viper's computer and played the pre-recorded message. "Greetings, Cadet Boomer," the recording said. "You have managed to successfully land your disabled Viper on this planet. Your scans prior to landing showed no signs of settlement, however, you were able to get a distress signal out prior to entering the atmosphere, and you were advised that rescue from your home ship, the _Atlantia_ , could not arrive before five cycles. You must survive on your own until then. Good luck."

"In other words, don't go anywhere, buddy, we'll be back for you eventually. Well, I suppose it could be worse." Playing the message would alert the Proctors that he was awake and the test was underway. 

He popped the canopy and climbed out onto the Viper's nose to get a look at where he had "landed" from a height. It was surprisingly beautiful. He was in a valley that was just long enough to have provided a safe landing for a Viper in distress. Mountains ringed him; if he had _really_ crash landed here, it would have been an exceptionally skillful landing. He felt momentarily smug as he turned a slow circle. Mountains probably meant caves, hopefully within sight of the Viper, and that glinting ribbon off in the distance was undoubtedly a river. Water and shelter, good. There were trees, so there would be wood for both shelter and fire. The laser strapped to his thigh was, he found, fully charged. He glanced up at the sky; it was a deep, cloudless blue. A light breeze blew from the west, and the ambient temperature was pleasant. Good, better, best. This was turning out to be not so bad.

"Ease up there, Boomer. Don't get cocky," he reminded himself. "They're not going to make it that easy for you." 

He climbed down from the Viper and inspected the storage hold. The usual supplies: two days' worth of uninspiring protein blocks, a thermal blanket, a short shovel, a canteen, a lifekit which contained bandaging, adhesives, pain relievers, a small packet of filament, and little else, a short length of rope, and a toolkit for Viper repair. Upon opening that latter, Boomer entertained thoughts of repairing the Viper and flying it out of here. He was no slouch when it came to electronics, and he could repair most of a Viper's systems, but he suspected that something would prevent him just flying away. Probably the ship had been drained of fuel when it was set down here; that would keep the cleverest cadet marooned. 

Deciding that his first priority had to be water, Boomer gathered up the canteen and headed for the river. It looked placid from a distance, but as he reached it, he found it rushing by white and foamy. It wasn't all that wide, but he didn't think he could cross it -- fortunately, he didn't have to. The channel dropped sharply away from the bank less than a metron out to judge by the flow, though the water was so stirred up that he really couldn't tell. He carefully dipped his canteen in and filled it. There would be purifier tabs in the lifekit. 

He stood, dripping canteen in hand and considered. He could set up camp here and be near water and still within sight of his Viper, or he could try to find a cave in the valley's walls. He had a nagging suspicion that this valley couldn't be anywhere near as pleasant as it seemed -- otherwise they'd call this the Furlon, not the Trial -- but so far, he couldn't see any reason not to stay on the valley floor, especially when _Stay Near Your Viper_ was the primary rule for surviving a wilderness crash.

He shrugged philosophically. If there were dangers that he didn't know about, he was obviously not _going_ to know about them until they happened. In the meantime, he'd set up camp back from the river slightly. He busied himself for the next several sectars, and by the time the sun set, he had a tidy camp with a fire going and a reserve store of wood. The spot he had chosen was sheltered at the rear by trees. He should be reasonably comfortable, and with luck, all he would have to do for the next few days would be solve the food problem -- and there was the river for that.

Unlike Starbuck, however, he was not fool enough to tempt the Fates by _saying_ such a thing aloud. He snorted a laugh and wondered for the first time in hours how his friends were doing on their own Trials. With luck and skill, in a little more than half a secton, they would be having a drink and laughing about the whole thing.

* * *

Crashing thunder woke Boomer from a restless sleep. His fire had burned out, but the valley was momentarily lit by branching lightning -- which fortunately did not strike the ground anywhere near him. Nevertheless, he started to reassess the idea of camping under trees. Maybe he should have looked for a cave, after all. And as that thought occurred to him, the rain started.

Calling it "rain" was like calling the unleased firepower of a Viper "a bit warm." In microns, he was drenched and his careful camp was soggy -- and was that river higher? "Caves it is," Boomer said. "But not tonight. Looks like you're spending tonight in the cockpit, buddy. Wet, I might add."

Working as quickly as he could in the deluge, keeping an eye on how far away the lightning seemed to be, he gathered up his belongings. The walk to the Viper in the open was one of the most unpleasant things he had ever done, and seemed to take thrice as long as it had earlier, but he made it at last. He stowed most of his gear in the hold, keeping out only the reflective thermal blanket, then popped the canopy and tried to get in as quickly as possible. There was still a puddle in the seat before he could get settled. He grimaced as he sank into it.

"Oh, lovely," he grumbled. "Just lovely." He wrapped the thermal blanket around himself and closed his eyes.

He had slept in the cockpit before, but never in gravity, and especially not with atmospheric hysterics everywhere. He had thought that he'd never be able to sleep through the pounding of the rain, but he did, at last, manage to fall back asleep. 

Only four more cycles.

* * *

When next he woke, the storm's fury had abated. Though rain still fell, the soaking fall was a gentle sprinkle compared to the night's damburst.

His clothing had started to dry, but the seat of his britches was still wet from sitting in the puddle all night. He would have to find a cave today, and hope by some miracle to come across some dry wood. His stomach growled. And some food.

He opened the canopy of the Viper to find it much colder in the valley than it had been yesterday. "Marvelous."

He started to climb down when he heard the roar. His initial thought was that another storm was rising, but as the noise continued -- and grew louder -- he realized he was hearing a ship.

"Back already?" he said aloud. "I have four more cycles in this lovely garden spot." Then he spotted the ship. Dark smoke trailed from a burning engine; its flight angle would take it across the valley and straight into the opposite rim. There was nothing he could do to prevent the crash. He did not recognize the design, but he did know that it wasn't Cylon.

He ducked instinctively as the ship passed low overhead. The noise as it hit the valley rim was nothing that Boomer could describe, but something that he never forgot. Even standing on the Viper, he felt the impact. For a moment, he thought the ship would stay on the small shelf it had hit, but with a sickening crunch, it started to slide. At least it hadn't exploded.

Boomer jumped to the ground and grabbed the lifekit from the hold. Motion caught the corner of his eye; he glanced up in time to see the canopy of a brown parachute. Tracking the motion, he realized that the flyer was going to go straight into the rushing, rain-swollen river.

"Frak!"

Boomer ran.

It was lucky that the storm had woken him, after all, for the river had swollen up over its banks and engulfed his campsite. The tallest of the trees had been struck by lightning and fallen partially into the water, but hadn't been dragged away downstream because it was still attached to the stump. The branches in the river had caught the canopy of the parachute as the river dragged it past, and the chutist had even managed to get himself out of the harness and was slowly making his way ashore. But as Boomer watched, a huge branch caught in the vicious current struck the chutist. He disappeared.

Boomer dropped the lifekit where it was. Running flat out toward the river, he dove in after the chutist. The freezing water closed over his head; the shock pushed the air from his lungs while the force of the river drove him right into the tree trunk. For a panicked moment, as he saw stars and struggled not to inhale, all he could think was that if he drowned here, he'd never be a Viper pilot. The sheer ludicrousness of the thought steadied him and he kicked up and out. His head broke the surface and he hauled in a deep breath -- or tried to. Breathing hurt. A lot. There were more stars lurking at the edges of his vision, but he ignored them. He had to get to the other pilot, whom he could see now was caught by a branch, unconscious, his face barely out of the water.

Using the tree trunk to tow himself along, he reached the man who, in Boomer's mind, had become a fellow Viper pilot, maybe even Apollo or Starbuck. He grabbed a handful of brown fabric and gently hauled the pilot toward him. Again using the trunk as a tow rope, he worked his way back to the shore, keeping a tight hold on the other pilot. At last, his feet touched bottom. He turned and grabbed the other pilot under the arms, dragging him out of the river.

Free of the water, Boomer allowed himself to momentarily collapse onto his back beside the still unconscious man he had saved. He was distantly aware that he had hurt himself when the water slammed him into the tree trunk, but he was still operating on adrenaline and -- for the moment -- it wasn't too bad. He opened his eyes. "C'mon, Boomer. No rest for the wicked. Shelter. Fire. See how badly the other guy's hurt."

He rolled carefully onto his side and pushed himself into a sitting position. The man he had pulled from the water wasn't a Colonial warrior, not even a cadet. The brown garment that Boomer's mind had fashioned into a warrior's uniform was actually a long, loose robe, open at the front. Wide bandoliers with curious crystalline devices attached to them criss-crossed his chest. His eyes remained closed under a heavy brow ridge. Boomer stared in disbelief. He had rescued a Borellian Noman.

After a moment, his stunned mind ground into gear and Boomer examined the Noman. He was very young; he had not yet grown the heavy beard that the males of his planet wore. He might even be younger than Boomer. Blood ran sluggishly from a gash on the side of his head. His left shoulder was at least dislocated, and the bone was possibly broken. There was another seeping wound on his left leg. The cold of the water seemed to have helped slow the bleeding from the lacerations, at least. 

Boomer quickly debated options. The rain had stopped at last while he was in the river, but the temperature had not risen much. They were both soaking wet and wounded, though the Noman was obviously worse off than he was himself. He was a bit worried that the Noman hadn't yet regained consciousness. All right. Treatment first, shelter next. If nothing else, he could perhaps rig his blanket into a tent under the Viper. A cave would be better, though, especially if the temperature continued to fall or if it started to rain again. At some point, he would have to have to check out the wreck of the Noman's ship to see what he might be able to scavenge from it. 

He climbed painfully to his feet and retrieved the lifekit. The Noman's wounds were easy enough to clean and bandage. Boomer hesitated before peeling back the man's eyelids. His pupils reacted equally to light; Boomer was pretty sure that was a good sign, though he was kind of fuzzy on that subject. Apollo would know for sure. He suddenly wished fiercely that his friends were there. Between the three of them, they'd figure this out.

But Apollo and Starbuck weren't here and it was up to Boomer. He hauled himself wearily to his feet and slogged back to the Viper for his blanket. There was no dry wood for a fire, but the heat-reflective properties of the blanket should help. He tucked it carefully around the Noman, then set off to find shelter. 

He elected to search the same side of the valley that the Noman's ship had crashed into simply because if there was a cave there, it would make hauling things around a lot easier. When he found just what he was looking for relatively quickly, he was ready to sing paeans of praise to the Lords of Kobol. Investigation showed it to be plenty deep enough for two grown men to stay in comfortably with a fire...and apparently others had had the same idea at some time because there was dry wood stacked at the back.

Boomer wondered wildly for a moment if finding the firewood was part of his Trial and if he might also find rations packed as carefully away, but the logical part of his mind reasserted itself and he realized that it had probably been herders or hunters who had stocked the cave. He would have to make sure that it was restocked when his Trial ended. For now, though, it was merely a boon unlooked for.

Now he just had to get the Noman up here and a fire started.

He stumbled over something as he moved back to the cave mouth, catching himself on the wall. The pain in his side was getting worse and he couldn't draw a deep breath. "Just what I need. A broken rib. They weren't joking when they called this the 'Trials,' were they." He stood for a moment, clutching the wall, then pushed off. He had a duty. He headed back for the river, detouring only to get his pack from the Viper so that he wouldn't have to later.

The Noman was awake but not moving when Boomer arrived back at his side. "Hey, how ya doin'?" he asked, kneeling down beside the man.

The Noman stared at him briefly, then his eyes slid away. He said nothing.

Boomer sighed. What he knew about Borellian Nomen was what everyone else knew: very little. They were a proud desert people who lived by a rigid Code. Their brow ridge had developed to shield their eyes from the desert winds and sands. Their planet was Not A Nice Place To Visit, the dominant life-form other than humans being scorpii, from the huge Manticus that some Nomen rode as steeds to the tiny Pale Death that could fell a man practically by looking at him. And that was pretty much it.

He tried again. "Do you know what happened to you?"

The Noman didn't respond.

"Your ship crashed and you ejected, but your chute went into the river," Boomer said. "I pulled you out, but you have been injured. Now, if you can walk, there is a cave up above where we can take shelter."

The Noman nodded briefly and put aside the blanket -- using his right hand, Boomer noted. So he had been awake long enough to discover his injuries. Boomer took the blanket and folded it small enough to thrust through his belt. The Noman got to his feet, and tottered for a moment. 

"Do you need help?" Boomer asked. A scathing look that clearly said _A Borellian Noman does not_ need _the help of inferior creatures_ was the only reply. Boomer stepped back, raising his hands. "Fine. Do it yourself. This way." 

He set off at a slow pace, playing up his own injury, so that he could accomodate the Noman; he sensed that otherwise the man would further injure himself in order to prove his resilience. The climb to the cave was an easy one for a hale man, but Boomer was beginning to think that he wasn't going to make it when the Noman stumbled and went down on one knee. Boomer immediately moved to his companion's side, getting a shoulder under his uninjured right arm and hauling him to his feet, while doing his best to ignore his own pain. That the Noman didn't refuse his help indicated to Boomer more than any words might have done that the Noman was nearing the end of his endurance.

They staggered together into the cave, and Boomer set the Noman down against the back of the cave. An almost imperceptible sigh escaped him and his eyes closed and did not reopen. Boomer shook his head. "You're welcome."

Next step: fire. The wood stacked at the back of the cave was mercifully dry. Boomer had gone on a few camping trips as a boy, so he had a vague idea how to build a fire, but it suddenly occurred to him that he had nothing with which to light it. Shrugging, he drew his laser and shot the wood. He was a bit surprised that the trick of action heroes in entertainment vids actually worked, but there was no way he was going to complain. As the cave started to warm, Boomer added some sort of door shield to his mental do-list. But first....

He sagged to the floor of the cave, his back against the wall opposite the Noman, so that they were facing one another and the light of the fire fell equally on their faces. The Noman's eyes were still closed. Boomer wondered if he were unconscious again, or just avoiding his savior. He suspected the former, given that there had been no reaction to the noise of the laser shot. It didn't really matter; now that the Noman had been made safe, Boomer had to attend to his own injuries. He peeled off his soggy uniform tunic and dropped it beside him. Another time, he might have laughed at the wet splat, but now that he was paying attention to it, the pain from his ribs threatened to swamp him. He hissed as he did his best to probe the injury. As best he could tell, the ribs were only cracked, not broken, because, well, he _was_ still breathing, if shallowly, and his heart seemed to be working properly. He retrieved the life kit and did his best to wrap his own torso, but it was a pointless exercise, as he knew when he finished that it was too loose, but by then, he was too tired to worry about it. He rested his head against the cave wall. He would only close his eyes for a moment....

* * *

Boomer wasn't entirely certain what woke him from uneasy dreams of drowning in sand while a large, hooded figure stood and watched, but the images faded quickly to be replaced by the throbbing of his...everything. He was still seated against the cave wall, and to judge by the dimness of the light and the burned-out fire, he had slept in one position for hours. Now he could add all sorts of stiffness to his more serious hurts.

He glanced over to check on his companion to discover that the Noman was gone. "Stupid," he said, but whether he was berating himself or the stiff-necked Noman, he could not say.

He clambered slowly to his feet and carefully pulled his tunic back on, hissing in pain the whole while. "When this is over," he said, "I'm gonna kill the Proctors. Right after I have a drink."

At the cave mouth, he discovered that it wasn't quite as late as he had initially thought, but sunset couldn't be more than a sectar off. The mellow, golden light glowed on the Viper below him. He looked toward the wreckage of the Noman ship, expecting to see his companion there, but there was no sign of him. Boomer stepped out onto the small ledge in front of the cave and looked all around.

The Noman lay huddled downslope from the cave, as though he had missed his step, fallen, and fetched up against a large rock below. Boomer shook his head.

"Lords of Kobol be merciful to idiots," he murmured. "And the idiots who take care of them," he added as an afterthought. The easiest way down was to follow the Noman. He crouched low to the slope and began a slow, careful slide downward, wincing at the stones that tumbled down onto the Noman.

"Hey, buddy," he said when he reached the Noman's side. "Hey. Wake up." The Noman didn't stir. "Frak!" Boomer swore. "I don't really want to drag you all the back up there, buddy."

"Dorva." The voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Hey, you're awake! What was that you said?" 

"My name. Dorva."

"Pleased to meet you, Dorva. My name is Boomer. Can you walk?"

"I do not yet know."

Boomer sat back for a moment. "I don't see any new injuries, but there's no telling what happened when you slid." He diplomatically did not use the word "fell."

Dorva's expression indicated that he knew very well what word Boomer was not using, but he said nothing. He visibly gathered himself and attempted to rise. He made it to his feet, then tottered and started to sag backwards. Boomer grabbed for his tunic and missed. He found himself, instead, holding one of the curious crystal contraptions from Dorva's bandoliers, while Dorva folded to the ground. 

He stared at it, momentarily entranced. It pulsed, then began to glow gently. A micron later, it emitted a hum that quickly became a high-pitched whine.

"I would get rid of that, if I were you," Dorva said.

Boomer raised his eyes from the crystals in his hand. "I'm sorry, I meant to catch you, not these." He extended his hand, meaning to give them back to their owner.

"Get rid of it," Dorva repeated.

"What? Why?"

"It's a weapon. You activated it when you pulled it from the bandolier."

"Well, how do you shut it off?"

"You do not. It must be deployed."

The whine was cycling higher, and the soft glow had become a glare. "What do I do?"

"Throw it."

Boomer's brain felt like lead. He could not seem to understand what he needed to do through the fog of pain and exhaustion. "Where?"

"The energy has to be discharged. Just throw it, you sensitive son of a poet!" The words exploded out of the Noman with more force than Boomer had yet heard, and penetrated the fog in his brain. He raised his arm -- not far enough -- and threw the crystals. As they left his hand, they separated, a thin red laser tethering them one to another. Fortunately, he had chosen to throw downslope of them, and away from the Viper...not that it really mattered, since the ship was disabled. A slender tree thrust upward from the scree at the base of the slope. Boomer watched, fascinated as the laser tether caught the trunk. The glare of the crystals grew bright enough that Boomer had to shield his eyes. With a sharp _crack_ the energy of the weapon discharged and the tree trunk was sheared in half.

"Wow," Boomer said.

"Indeed," the Noman agreed. "Imagine that happening in your hand."

"No, thank you," Boomer said. He saw the glint of the crystals at the base of the tree trunk. "The crystals aren't destroyed?"

Dorva shook his head. "No. They can be recharged."

Boomer sighed. "I'll go get them." Fortunately, he hadn't been able to throw them too far. He examined the tree trunk as he carefully picked up the crystals. The cut was surgically precise. Both ends of the severed trunk were burned. Boomer shuddered as he imagined what the weapon would do to flesh.

Dorva was sitting up when Boomer made it back to his side, but Boomer wasn't quite ready to tackle the rest of the slope yet. He handed the crystals back to Dorva, who silently affixed them once more on his bandolier. Boomer drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. He lowered his forehead to his knees and closed his eyes briefly.

"You don't look so good."

"Speak for yourself," Boomer said, without opening his eyes.

"As you wish. _I_ don't look so good," Dorva said.

Boomer opened his eyes in surprise at the hint of humor in his companion's voice. He raised his head. "Well, don't we make quite the pair? Are you ready to go back up?"

"I believe so, but I regret to say that I am going to need assistance."

"Me, too," Boomer muttered, but he got to his feet and helped Dorva get to his. He carefully avoided jostling the crystalline weapons on Dorva's bandoliers, though, as they made their slow, shuffling progress back up the slope to the cave. Boomer propped Dorva against the cave wall, then built another fire. He reached for his laser pistol, but Dorva stopped him.

"Try this," he said. The device in his hand appeared to be a simple cylinder with a thumb switch on one end. "It's a sparker. Pull the switch toward you and the mechanism inside creates sparks."

"Thanks." Boomer stuck the end of the sparker in the kindling and pulled the switch a couple of times. Sparks shot out the end of the tube and the kindling ignited.

"More efficient than discharging your laser," Dorva observed as Boomer handed the device back to him. He tucked it into a pocket of his robe. 

"How's your arm?" Boomer asked.

"Painful," Dorva replied. "There is a trick to returning a shoulder to its socket. It's not pretty, but it works. However, I am certain that one of the bones in my forearm is broken. I cannot tell whether it took further damage in the fall or not. How are your ribs?"

"Painful." Boomer deliberately used the same tone as the Noman. "I don't think any are actually broken, though, just cracked."

"Bad enough." Dorva's eyes glinted in the firelight. He hesitated, before saying, quietly, "I thank you for my life. I cannot swim."

Boomer resisted looking away in embarrassment; he sensed that it would be an insult to the Noman. "You're welcome." 

They were both silent for a moment, then Boomer cleared his throat. "If you think that arm is broken, we should splint it. Some of that firewood might be suitable."

"With my arm splinted, I might be able to help you strap your ribs," Dorva said. "I noticed earlier that you had some difficulty with it."

"I would appreciate the help," Boomer said gravely. He scooted over toward the firewood and quickly located a pair of likely sticks. He broke them as closely as possible into lengths that would match Dorva's forearm, then approached his companion. "I don't know how to set a bone, I'm afraid."

Dorva shrugged with his left shoulder. "No more do I; I am not a healer. One can do no more than one's best."

"True enough," Boomer agreed. "This will probably hurt."

"Inevitably."

Boomer worked as quickly as he dared, though he needed Dorva's help to hold things steady, and the Noman blanched more than once, though he showed no other signs of discomfort. When the arm had been securely strapped, Boomer moved to sit against the wall next to Dorva.

"I think we can reuse those wrappings of yours," Dorva said, after a bit. Boomer looked over at him and nodded.

Rewrapping his ribs ended up being like a routine from a comedy vid. In order to properly tighten the wrappings, Boomer ended up slowly circling in place while Dorva held the wad of bandages and paid it out a little at a time. Boomer adjusted it as well as he was able, but when they were finally finished, it was adequately tight and Boomer found almost immediately found his breathing easier.

"Thank you, Dorva. Are you hungry? I have a little food."

"I am a bit," Dorva acknowledged. "If you are willing to share your food with me this night, I can repay you with supplies from my ship on another night." He cocked his head to one side. "Or so I hope," he said wryly.

Boomer snorted. "We'll leave that for tomorrow, I think." He retrieved his pack and handed half of the remaining food to Dorva. They ate for a while in silence, Boomer hoping that tomorrow's weather would be decent as he was going to have to fish and visit the wreck of Dorva's ship.

He finished his last protein block and leaned his head back against the wall. He felt the weight of Dorva's eyes and remembered something.

"Sensitive son of a poet? Pretty strong words for a manticus-rider like yourself," he said.

Dorva's eyes flashed. "It is a great honor to ride the manticus!" Then he caught Boomer's quickly hidden smile. His answering smile was merely a crinkling of his eyes, but it was there. "I suppose you are going to say that it is a great honor to be a poet amongst you Colonials."

Boomer shrugged. "My father _is_ a poet." It wasn't strictly an untruth; while he was a historian by profession, Boomer's father had been known to write the occasional poem.

"My father was a warrior," Dorva said. "These," he touched the crystals on his chest, "were his."

"Was?"

"He is dead. He forgot to shake out his boots one morning. The Pale Death is very, very quick. The scorpius was also killed, but that made no difference to my father."

"I'm sorry," Boomer said.

"So was I."

That brought the conversation close enough to where Boomer wanted it. "So you inherited those from him? What are they?"

"They are laser bola. They are based on a very ancient design; in the days before the Colonies were settled, they were lead balls connected by a leather thong. One whirled them overhead before releasing them."

"Sounds dangerous," Boomer said. "To everyone."

Dorva shrugged. "They could be. An inexperienced person could easily hit himself. Nomen who do not learn quickly do not survive."

"Why do they activate immediately? That doesn't seem safe."

"I would think even the son of a poet could figure that out," Dorva said. "They are not meant to be safe. And a warrior must not hesitate. You surely know that."

Boomer nodded. He did know that.

"May I now ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Why are you still here? Your ship appears whole and undamaged. Why have you not flown away and left me? Surely your injuries are not that severe."

Boomer held up a finger. "For one thing, I would not leave someone who needed my help; _my_ code does not permit it." He unfolded a second finger. "For another," he shrugged, wincing, "I can't leave. The ship is mainly for show. I'm trapped here for the next three cycles."

"Trapped? How?"

"It's my Trial," Boomer said. "I have passed through all the training necessary for a Warrior, and have even had my first posting in the Service. But all my life, I have wanted to fly Vipers. So I went to flight school and through the Viper pilot training program. Training isn't enough, though. I have to prove that I can survive on my own if my ship goes down. So my teachers marooned me here for five cycles, but with only enough supplies for two. If you're still standing when they come back for you, you get to fly Vipers. If not...." He shrugged. 

"We, too, have a test," Dorva said. "It is...unpleasant. I passed mine only recently."

"How did you end up here?"

"Engine trouble."

"The Proctors will be coming for me in three days," Boomer said. "You can come with us."

"Surely they will come earlier than that," Dorva said. "They must be monitoring this area; they will have seen my ship crash."

Boomer shook his head. "I don't think they do monitor. Going through the Trial is voluntary; my uncle got all the way through Viper training, but refused at the last minute to take the Trial. Although he never talks about it, I think he was afraid that he wouldn't survive on his own."

"Was his father a poet?" Dorva's smile was a bit wider this time, and Boomer laughed.

"No, my grandfather was a Viper pilot." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Grandfather told me such stories of the stars," he said. "All I ever wanted was to be a pilot. Even my uncle had stories, though his weren't as wild as Grandfather's. To fly among the stars...."

With Dorva watching him, Boomer fell asleep.

* * *

Raucous birdsong woke Boomer at daybreak. His chest ached and his fundament was pretty sore from sitting on the rough stone floor of the cave, but he was less exhausted. Not but what he couldn't have slept another day. Dorva, wrapped in his cloak, lay sleeping not far from where Boomer sat. He pushed himself to his feet and went to the cave mouth. The floor of the valley was still in shadow, but the rim was golden with morning light. If the morning sky was any indication, the weather looked like it was returning to the mellow warmth of his first day here. He hoped so; it would make some things easier.

He began composing a do-list in his head. Today, he had to visit the wreckage of Dorva's ship and see what could be salvaged. He hoped there was food, as Dorva had promised. He hoped, too, that Dorva had medical supplies, because his lifekit was running low on bandages. If the food supplies had been destroyed, however, then he was going to have to try fishing. He grimaced at the thought of trying to clean and cook fish. 

Dorva had awoken and was watching him when he turned around.

"How's the arm?"

Dorva considered. "Painful. The leg is quite painful, also."

"You didn't break your leg, too?" Boomer exclaimed, alarmed. 

"No. But it was badly cut. It will be all right. It hurts, but one is trained to bear such things."

"Well, if one would like to tell me where I might find the food supplies in one's craft, I might consider going to get them."

Dorva's instructions were concise and exact. Getting into the ship, however, Boomer saw when he got there, might pose a bit of a problem; a rock was jammed up against the hatch. Even were he not hampered by cracked ribs, Boomer probably couldn't clear it by himself. Perhaps he could get through the forward ports? They had likely broken in the crash.

He climbed as carefully as he could; on the way from the cave, he had found a long branch that he was using as a walking stick. Because the ground here was unstable and likely to shift if he put too much weight on the wrong spot, he used the branch to probe ahead. When he got to a spot from which he could reach the front of the craft, he stopped to rest. The strapping helped a lot, but it didn't _heal_ his ribs. He ached all over and he _desperately_ wanted to take a full, deep breath. "Not going to be singing opera today."

At least he would be able to get into Dorva's ship from the front. The ports were clear. Now he just had to hope that the wreck was stable and his weight wasn't going to send it plunging down the slope to the valley floor. He shrugged. "If it does, you're not going to have to worry about passing the Trial," he told himself philosophically. 

He began his careful descent toward the front of the wreck, grateful that the valley's wall wasn't sheer and allowed for careful climbing. After several centons, he slid in through the empty frame of the front viewport. He had never seen the interior of a Borellian craft before, but this really wasn't the time for exploration. There was a lot of debris in the ship; she wasn't ever going to fly again. It occurred to him as he crawled over the controls that there should be a distress beacon, but when he stopped to examine the instrument panel, he could find no sign of one. On the other hand, if he hadn't known that he was climbing over the pilot's console, he wouldn't have been able to guess it from what was left of it. He hoped that the beacon was automatic. 

He wondered for the first time what would happen when the Proctors came for him. Would they take Dorva back with them for medical attention? They wouldn't leave him lying there in the cave, would they? Or would Dorva's own people come looking for him before the Proctors came back for Boomer? 

For the first time since he'd woken up after being Iced, Boomer considered the recall code. Sometimes, despite the care that went into setting them up, Trials went desperately wrong. Although it wasn't easy to get to, each Viper was equipped with a recall code that would summon help. Boomer had no idea what his recall code actually was; it was etched into the back of the Viper's instrument panel. He suddenly realized that was why the toolkit had been included. If he needed to use the recall code, he would need to get the instrument panel facing off.

At the moment, however, the more pressing matter was food. If he had his directions right, then _that_ was the food storage locker. He pried the lid up and was rewarded with the sight of food blocks.

* * *

Boomer wrestled with the question of the recall code on his trip back to the cave. For himself, injured or not, he would not use it. But for Dorva, who was clearly hurt far worse than he, Boomer, was? And, Boomer suspected, far worse than he was letting on?

Using the code would likely spell the end of his career as a Viper pilot. Oh, he could go into other branches of the Colonial Service, or fly shuttles or lesser craft as his uncle had. He could still get a posting aboard a battlestar. But he had only ever wanted to fly Vipers. Was he really considering giving up his life's ambition for a stranger? Was he prepared for that sort of sacrifice? 

"Can I really do any less?"

He couldn't, Boomer realized; if he failed to help Dorva to the limit of his capabilities, he would have failed at being a human being -- and that was more important than being a Viper pilot. He would take the food to Dorva and then go set the recall code. He should have thought of it sooner.

He sighed. "Maybe they'll let me have another Trial."

He resolutely did not look at the Viper as he climbed back toward the cave.

He was just stepping over the threshhold when he heard the far-off boom of a craft entering atmosphere. It couldn't be the Proctors already. "Hey," he said, moving toward the back of the cave without waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. "Looks like we won't be needing this, after all."

"No," Dorva agreed quietly. "We will not."

Something in his voice caused Boomer's hand to move quickly toward his laser. "What is it?" He finally saw Dorva sitting against the rearmost wall of the cave. The Noman was pale and sweating. Boomer dropped the bag and went quickly to his side. "You're worse."

Dorva shrugged with his good shoulder. "It does not matter. Soon, I will be dead. You must not be found with me, Boomer, or they will kill you, too."

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"I did not tell you the truth earlier, Boomer. I did not simply have engine trouble. My uncle has been hunting me for weeks. I was shot down. It has probably taken them so long to get here because they had to search each moon and planet in this system."

"Blood hunt?" Boomer had heard of the Nomen vendetta; one of the few times that Nomen would associate with other peoples was when they were following a blood hunt.

Dorva nodded. "My father was the leader of our tribe, but his brother killed him. In order to become the legitimate leader, he must now also kill me."

"You said your father was killed by the Pale Death."

"And so he was. But since his boots were locked away in a scorpius-free cupboard, there is only one way the Pale Death could have gotten into them."

"How do you know it was your uncle?"

"He told me so the last time he tried to kill me. Had he not threatened the lives of my mother and my sisters, I would have fought him. My youngest sister is only a child."

"What were you planning to do?"

"I had no plan other than to get away from him and save my remaining family."

"How many will there be?"

"No more than three. My uncle, of course, and two seconds."

Boomer's mind went into overdrive. Tactics and plans flickered through his thoughts.

"All right. They're going to find the wreckage of your craft. When they overfly the valley, they're going to see the Viper. They'll probably find your chute in the river, so I can't tell them that you died in the crash. How would they react if they thought I had killed you?"

"Probably not well. Under the Code, my uncle could then legally kill you in revenge, and he probably would just out of spite."

"Nice. All right, then, I guess you're safe from me. Dammit, I wish Starbuck and Apollo were here."

"Your Colonial friends?"

"Uh huh. Apollo is a great tactician, and Starbuck...well, Starbuck would probably try to engage them in a game of chance...." Boomer's voice trailed off as he realized exactly what Starbuck would do. "Now that might actually work! C'mon, Dorva. We need to get you out of here. I just hope there's enough time to pull this off."

* * *

"Greetings, Colonial."

"Whoa! You guys startled me!" Boomer said. As Dorva had said, there were three of them. They were all much older than their quarry, their faces heavily bearded, and their eyes, beneath the brow ridges, nestled in wrinkles. The man in the center was clearly Dorva's uncle; while his dress was no richer than that of the other two, he had an air of command -- and his followers were literally _following_ him: they walked two paces behind. Boomer reached into the Viper's cockpit and toggled the switch to close and lock the canopy. "I didn't hear a ship, but am I ever glad to see you guys."

"What are you doing here, Colonial?"

Boomer slid down from the Viper, flexing his knees as his feet hit the ground. "I saw that crashed ship over there and came to see if I could offer any assistance, but now I'm having some trouble, with my own ship...." He cocked a thumb over his back toward the Viper.

"Your troubles are your own business," the Noman declared. "Our business is with that ship. Your assistance is not required."

"My Viper has engine trouble; I could really use a ride off this rock. I'd be happy to exchange my help for yours." Boomer kept his voice light and his expression neutral.

"We are not here to rescue idiot Colonials," one of the other Nomen spat. Dorva's uncle raised a hand and glared at the other until he subsided. 

"We are on a mission of our own for the leader of our tribe," he said. "Should you still require assistance when we are finished, we will be happy to render aid."

"I could give you a hand," Boomer insisted.

The Nomen turned without a word and stalked in the direction of the wreckage, their robes flapping. 

"That's no, then? Polite fellows," Boomer muttered. He sagged against the Viper's wing for a moment; it took a _lot_ of effort to maintain an uninjured facade. He straightened again after a moment, his hand going to the stitch in his side. Time for step two.

He opened up the Viper's inspection hatch and set to work. Very shortly, he had an impressive array of wiring looped everywhere -- and he had discovered that the fuel cells had _not_ been drained; rather, the Viper's ignition circuitry had been disabled. Very sloppy on someone's part, but very lucky for the enterprising pilot who just happened to have a bit of experience in, ahem, _bypassing_ normal engine ignition protocols. Who would have thought that a history of juvenile delinquency could come in so handy?

He really was engrossed in his work when the Nomen's voice rang out behind him. "Colonial!"

He jumped and hit his head on the inspection hatch. "Ow! What?" He glared at the Nomen with his hand on his head. 

"How long have you been here, Colonial?" Dorva's uncle looked him up and down, as if noticing, for the first time, his less than regulation appearance.

"Since yesterday morning," Boomer replied. "I spent some time seeing if there were any survivors, couldn't find any and got ready to leave...and my Viper's engines wouldn't ignite. I ended up spending the night in a cave up there." He gestured vaguely toward the valley wall. "Must be herders use this valley, because there was already firewood stacked up there. Pretty lucky, eh?"

"You say your ship is disabled?"

"Yup. Finally got the emergency beacon working just now, so someone should be along to pick me up in an hour or two."

Boomer did not miss the sidelong glances that passed between the Noman's underlings. They definitely did not want to be here when more Colonial Warriors showed up. Strictly speaking the blood hunt was not illegal under Colonial law because it was covered under a freedom of religion clause. However, blood hunts were supposed to end with apprehension of the hunted party and an appearance before a judge. It was odd just how many hunts ended with the death of the fugitive.

"Then you will not require our assistance after all."

"No. But thank you."

Dorva's uncle did not acknowledge Boomer's thanks. "We did not find survivors. According to our Code, we will be passing over this valley again and we will destroy the ship. It would be best if you were away from it when that happened."

Boomer nodded. "All right. Just don't miss and hit anything else, like my cave up there...just in case."

The Noman's eyes narrowed. "We are not accustomed to missing."

Boomer watched them walk away until they passed beyond his sight, then he turned back to the Viper and began stuffing wiring back inside her. He had the inspection hatch closed when he heard the Noman ship's engines start up; by the time they flew low overhead -- low enough to obviously be checking the Viper's cockpit -- he was leaning over getting ready to open the closed canopy. He ducked and watched them pass...and was completely unsurprised when they loosed a volley of laser shots not only at the wreckage of Dorva's ship, but at the valley wall where he had indicated that his cave was.

He was, however, not prepared for them to bank about and come back...toward him. He was just beginning to wonder if he should think about running when they peeled off and with a sonic boom, shot toward the stratosphere and space beyond. Boomer nevertheless counted out a full five centons before he wilted in relief across his canopy.

"Have they gone?" The question was muffled.

He closed his eyes and nodded, then shifted so that Dorva could open the canopy. "They're gone," he said, as the canopy started to rise. Dorva shoved aside the thermal blanket concealing him. "And I got the engines working, so you can go, too."

"What about you? What if my uncle returns?"

"The Proctors will be back for me tomorrow," Boomer answered. "And since we managed to hide your parachute, I think I'll be safe enough until then. Good fortune to you, manticus-rider."

"And to you, poet's son. And my thanks for all that you have done. I declare you blood of my blood. We will meet again." He put on Boomer's helmet and toggled the switch to close the canopy.

"I hope so," Boomer said. "Take care." He gave the traditional ground crew sign to an about-to-launch pilot and slid to the ground, walking quickly away from the Viper. When he was safely out of range, Dorva launched and climbed quickly out of sight. He was soon lost in the clouds.

"Alone at last," Boomer said with a sigh, and a hand on his aching ribs.

* * *

This time when Boomer woke, there was no headache. Even better, he was able to breathe normally. He opened his eyes and started to sit up, but a hand pressed him back.

"Hey, buddy, take it easy. You apparently had quite the adventure the last few days, and the docs don't want you moving around too much."

Boomer squinted into a bright light. "Starbuck?"

"Uh huh."

"Where am I?"

"There's an original question. Where do you think you are?"

"Stop teasing him, Starbuck." Apollo smiled down at Boomer. "You're in the life station. Your Trial is over, but you were injured, so they brought you here instead of back to the barracks."

"The Trial is over? Did we pass?"

Starbuck grinned. "With flying colors -- some of us more flying than others, of course. How did you manage to get your Viper going again?"

"Trade secret," Boomer answered. He took a deep breath and his hand moved almost by habit to his ribs. 

"They've been mended," Apollo said. "You did have a few other injuries, and those have been taken care of, too. Still, you're not to move around much." He lowered his voice. "And the Proctors apparently want a word with you about the Viper."

"But we passed?" Boomer insisted.

Apollo put a hand on Boomer's shoulder. "Yes. We passed. We're Viper pilots now."

Boomer took a deep breath, and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: _Battlestar Galactica_ is owned lock, stock, and Viper by Glen A. Larson and Universal. No infringement is intended and no profit will be had hereby.


End file.
